Forever Came Too Soon
by sunshinetina
Summary: John can't get over Sherlock's death and is diagnosed with a grave illness. Warning: may a bit too sad and woeful.


**FOREVER CAME TOO SOON**

The doctor is wrong. He keeps saying that John is going to be alright, ok, perfectly fine. He won't. John knows that. I know that. Everyone knows that. I am just the only one still reluctant to accept it.

Everything becomes a blur. I can see the perfect rough contours of John's body throughout the dimmed window of the hospital room he is in. A young nurse helps him to stay up, changes his hospital gown, and slowly covers him with the cream bed sheet as he lies back. He coughs – a moment too often seen, then tries to smile – unsuccessfully as ever – and waves for 'good-bye'. His dark-blue eyes – now, more hazy than ever – I bet, catch my glance throughout that small window, but he turns his face at his right and buries it into his pillow. The nurse walks out of the room, murmuring something under her nose.

'Is he alright?'

Mycroft's voice is the only thing I've been hearing for the past hour and a half maybe. He has been asking every medic in the hospital how exactly John is, and when we can take him home. Everyone answered with a gentle smile and a nod, then patted Mycroft and me on the shoulder, quickly answered, 'He'll be ok,' and hurried down the corridor, refusing to meet our gazes.

The nurse walks away as all the others. I sigh – a breath whose tiny drops glue to the window in front of me. Mycroft comes closer and leans at the window, patting it a bit with his umbrella.

'He is dying,' I can hear myself saying, as a deep sigh comes out of his half-closed mouth, 'Isn't he, Mycroft? Just tell me the truth.'

He pouts and bites his lips and I can feel his hand on my shoulder.

'Look, Mary, he is a soldier. He is been through much worse than that. He will be ok.'

'Oh, will he?' I can feel the ball of rage curling up in my stomach, 'We both know this battle is his last, Mycroft.'

'The events of the last three years are still suppressing him. That's it. But he _will_ get over them. He has a family now, after all.'

Mycroft has never been so sympathetic in his entire life. With his palm still touching my bare shoulder, he is almost hugging me – an emotion neither of the Holmes brothers, as I've heard, has ever shown towards anyone.

'He wants his friend back.'

Mycroft makes a sad smile and makes a step aside, taking his hand away of my body and laying it down on his umbrella.

'We _all_ want Sherlock back.'

'Is he going to be better if we take him to the graveyard?'

Mycroft shakes his head, unwilling to take his eyes off the window. John is laying still, his head still buried into the soft pillow beneath his head. His eyes are wide-open, tears just unconsciously flowing from them down his cheeks – a sight regularly seen.

'I don't think so, Mary. This is just going to make him even worse. He wants to see Sherlock alive, not six feet under the ground.'

I make a fake smile, feeling the lump in my throat. My husband is dying before my eyes and I am helpless to do anything. Even with the help of Mycroft and his money; even with the left wealth of the Sherlock Holmes I have never had the chance to meet; even with the moral support of Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade... John is getting worse and worse with every single day. Just one doctor only had the courage to declare the diagnosis – **schizophrenia**. John did not even react upon hearing it. He just smiled – a smile of a fool rather than one of a stable soldier – then, curled into his bed, covered himself with bed-sheets, and continued smiling.

I've met John immediately after Sherlock Holmes's death. Devastated and unwilling to live any longer, his only desire was to find something or rather, someone, to hang on to and to go on existing. I've always known he is not in love with me – he just needed a companion in his life: someone to share his pain of the greatest loss in his life with. He took me for granted – the kind friend at home who has always been able to understand and to listen to him.

One day he told me he missed him. He confessed he has been seeing him in his latest dreams – for about two months and something, he said – begging him to come over and for them to solve crimes together. John was so anxious about meeting Sherlock again – even though it was in his dreams only, that he started taking naps regularly – even at work; he began waking up relatively late; he refused to take care of his patients.

That is how all of it started. He left work and decided to stay all day long at home. He started buying enormous quantities of milk, and complained about the always full with food fridge, instead of being filled with thumbs and human heads. He bought himself a violin and started taking lessons but insisted on them to be at home, since he did not want to meet up with anyone else, apart from Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and me. He started getting awkwardly delighted upon reading about a murder in the newspapers, jotting down in his small leather agenda all the facts about it. He refused to eat – claiming it was boring and was slowing down his brain process. He slowly started avoiding me, refused to talk to me, and implied the term 'Mind Palace' more and more often.

He started reading a lot and finally reached the point when he proclaimed 'sleep is utterly useless too,' and refused to go to bed with me, or even by himself. He persuaded Lestrade, insisting on the point that he can be of certain help to the police, but after the single crime task Lestrade has given him, John's views proved to be exclusively pointless. John returned back home – more devastated than ever, got into his bed and stayed there for two days – without sleeping, eating, talking.

'I am not Sherlock. Sherlock is dead. I am _no one_,' he whispered on the third day. This was the final line and, without even asking him (what for?), I called Mycroft and we both agreed John needed medical advice about his condition.

It wasn't hard making him go to the hospital.

'We know you are a doctor yourself, John, but...'

'I'm not a doctor. I am _no one_,' he went on repeating and whispering to himself.

When the doctors explained to all three of us that John needed to stay at the hospital, the only thing he did was to shrug a bit. His blue eyes – still and steady – were locked on the window. He was emotionless – sometimes smiling stupidly without a single reason, and sometimes bursting out crying. **He was a wreck.**

I went on visitation every single day and stayed with him for about three hours, sometimes even longer. At first we didn't talk at all – he was all silent and dead serious, with motionless eyes and closed mouth. Then he started talking without a rest – sometimes even foaming at his mouth, and twice even fainted due to over-emotion.

_All he was talking about was Sherlock._ If before he was talking about him as about a dead person: long gone but never forgotten, now John was referring to Sherlock always in the present.

'He is going to come here later. He now has a crime to solve but will be here very soon. We need to talk about Mrs Hudson's atrocious hip. The poor lady is in an outrageous pain.'

'Sherlock told me to send you all the best greetings and is utterly apologising for his lack of time. Mary, he wants to meet you so desperately. Generally, he does not like my girlfriends at all and I was afraid he would have never accepted you once coming to know you, but he does quite like you, actually. He is a very nice and awfully clever man – you will certainly like him.'

'I need to blog about the latest crime solved by Sherlock. He was _spectacular_. He solved the mystery just by one look. Though he is a bit shy now and reluctant to admit that I've helped him a tiny bit at the beginning too. But he is _amazing_ and _fantastic_. As always, as a matter of fact.'

'Mary, Sherlock came here today and left me this,' he told me today at the morning when we both came into the hospital with Mycroft. I took the small piece of paper John handed me, and looked at it with a blank face. _'Don't give up, John. You are a soldier. A true soldier __never__ gives up, John. –SH'_

I smiled saddened and handed the note to Mycroft. His eyes widened upon reading the note.

'Where did you get this note from, John?'

'Apparently, Sherlock was here yesterday but I was asleep and he left me the note,' John shrugged. I looked at Mycroft with an inquiring look.

'When was the last time you saw him, John?'

I tried to interrupt Mycroft but he just made a gesture at me to shut up. John smiled hazily.

'I think it was a few days ago – Monday, probably. Why do you ask?' seeing that even Mycroft started actually _believing_ Sherlock has been there, made John's face glow.

'No, just...' Mycroft swallowed and put the note into the pocket of his coat, 'He didn't call. I worry about him constantly, you know. I was expecting him to call.'

'Yes, he was in Cardiff for a crime. It is possible that he was too busy to give you a call. You can give him a ring now – he is most probably at St Bart's.'

John collapsed right after mentioning the name of St Bart's. He started screaming and tossing himself in the bed, throwing everything in front of his eyes at the doctors and nurses entering the room. After the syringe touched his arm and the sedative entered his veins, he calmed down and half-closed his eyes.

'He will come, Mycroft. He will be here very soon. He _will_ come. Just wait for him.'

Now, looking at the half-asleep John laying calm on his bed, I can't help but sniffle and then burst out crying. Mycroft hands me a tissue.

'I had a talk with his doctor. The note is a perfect resemblance of Sherlock's handwriting – that's why I was so surprised. But the doctor told me that it was just an imitation – sometimes the patients in this condition of his develop such skills.'

I nod in response.

'What else did he tell you?'

Mycroft sighs.

'His hysteria moments are more often encountered now, I am afraid. Mary, we need to be with him more – he needs us. His memories of Sherlock are more vivid than ever and he needs someone to share them with – only in that way he will soon realise Sherlock is gone.'

I nod again. Mycroft fakes a smile.

'He is a brave man. _A true soldier_. He will manage to do it.'

So I nod for a third time and wave at Mycroft as he walks down the corridor. I will spend the night with John. He is calm now and he will most probably need someone to talk to when he wakes up at the middle of the night.

I am waiting for the nurse to finish her duty with John and enter the room as she leaves with a smile.

'He will sleep like a baby now, I can assure you,' she winks at me and closes the door right after herself. John is so calm that he even freaks me out – he has never been so calm throughout the three years I have known him. He is not smiling, nor crying – his eyes are directed right at the white wall in front of him. He has turned his back at me, so I sit on the chair, my eyes upon his bare neck, as he is curled into a ball in his bed. I watch him as he inhales and exhales slowly and barely heard – just like a mother watches her small child. I smile reminiscing all the nice memories I have shared with this husband of mine, and then I feel the urge to cry when I see who he is now.

I hear him taking a deep breath and murmuring something under his nose but I cannot quite describe what it is. He continues talking to himself.

'John? John, love, is everything alright?'

I can see him nod – his neck moving rhythmically as he chuckles. I smile slightly and lean back on the chair, putting my coat aside. I will spend the night here – it won't be comfortable, of course, but I should make it as good as possible.

'Mary?'

His stable and gentle voice – just as I remember it – makes me widen my eyes and my body freeze.

'Yes, John? What's wrong?'

'You don't know Sherlock, don't you?'

'I have never seen him but I know him, John. You have described him to me very well.'

Silence. I hear him coughing quietly, clearing his throat.

'You all think I am sick, aren't you, Mary?'

'John, you are just a bit depressed, darling. That's all.'

'No, I am _not_. Sherlock is **alive**. You all should know that. He is alive.'

'Yes. Right. He **is**, John,' I sigh. Despite everything, I was still hoping he was a bit better. Well, he was not, 'Now try to sleep.'

'Sherlock will come tonight, Mary. So just hold your eyes wide open – you'll see him,' I catch the edge of his mouth. He is probably smiling. It's terrible to see him like that.

'Ok, John, as you wish. I'll stay awake the whole night. I'm eager to finally meet this Sherlock Homes of yours.'

'Yes, _of mine_...' I hear him whispering to himself, 'And don't talk to him, Mary – he likes to hear his voice only. His _beautiful, deep voice_ only. And if you try looking him at the eyes, you won't hear a single word of his, so just don't. His...' John chuckles, 'His _God-only-knows-what-colour-exactly eyes_ will mesmerise you, Mary. Don't look at them.'

'Alright, John. I won't. Now, please, darling, have some sleep. You are tired.'

'I will, Mary.'

Silence. He inhales and exhales several more times. Then he suddenly moves a bit, probably making himself more comfortable.

'Mary?'

'Yes, John?'

'_At the end_... At the end I couldn't tell him everything I wanted to,' John, apparently, started talking about Sherlock in past tense – he realised there was an _end_, after all.

'It's ok, John. Tell him now.'

Again a dreadful silence.

'Mary?'

'Mhm?'

He takes several deep breaths – sometimes, even forgetting to exhale. Coughs.

'I love you too.'

This is a stab in my heart, as I see his eyes pointlessly directed at the wall against him. He is stupidly smiling again. He is not talking to me.

'_I love you too, Sherlock!'_

_He is so close – I can touch him. Right, if I stretch my hand, I'll touch his woollen coat. If I take a deep breath, I will inhale his thick aroma. If I press my lips against his ghostly white skin, I can feel under them his razor-shaped cheekbones. He is here. Sherlock Holmes. **My** only one in the world._

_He comes even closer – his presence in the room makes it even tighter: there is never enough space for Sherlock Holmes and his genius. He kneels down, right next to my bed, and directs his eyes at my face. And I can feel the shiver all over my spine as he smiles. I've seen him smile so many times but never-ever like this._

_He takes off his leather gloves and takes my rough face into his soft hands. His long thin fingers brush my greasy hair and I can't help but feel my eyes filling up with tears._

'_Shhh... Shhh, John. Don't cry. Mary will hear you. You've never wanted to be weak in front of ladies, have you?'_

_I try to smile but I cannot do it properly for the distance between his eyes and mine own is barely present._

'_I thought you'll manage to do it a bit longer, John,' caressing my head with his fingers; he is still smiling at me, 'But you're always in a hurry.'_

'_I miss you, Sherlock,' the words seem to just involuntarily escape my mouth._

'_I know, John, I know. And I miss you too. There is no one up here to solve crimes with. There are all so boring. I need my only friend.'_

'_Sherlock?'_

'_Yes, John?'_

'_Did you come for me, Sherlock?'_

'_Yes, John,' we both smile, 'Do you want to come with me, John?'_

'_Oh, God, yes!'_

_We start giggling. His thumb is against my lips. I can feel his heavy breath on my nose._

'_Why did you leave me, Sherlock?'_

_He swallows – his eyes sparkling more than ever._

'_To see how much you really care about me, John.'_

'_And did you manage to see it?'_

'_Yes, John. You care about me almost as much as I care about you,' a pause, 'Ah, and I may later hate myself for admitting this – but I quite like Mary. She loves you.'_

'_I love you too, Sherlock.'_

_He smiles at this – his blue eyes smiling along with him, as he brushes my hair with this left hand and my lower lip with his right._

'_I thought we'd be forever like that, Sherlock. You, me, crimes, murders, pressure.'_

'_**Forever came too soon, John.'**_

_I try to smile but I feel a strange softness against my lips. His eyes are directed at mine own – just an inch apart, as his lips are gently touching mine._

'_Would you trust me if I tell you I love you, John?' he finally asks, separating his lips from mine._

'_No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie,' we both smile._

'_Close your eyes, John.'_

'_Another experiment, Sherlock?'_

'_Yes, John, the most important experiment in our lives.'_

'_Forever came too soon.'_

I hear him gasp and I open my eyes wide. I thought for a second he was breathing heavily, so I calm down a bit and look at him for awhile. After a minute I figure out he is laying motionless. I slowly approach his bed and lay my palm on his waist. I was right – he does not react. I move my two fingers on his bare neck. Even without being a doctor, I know what was going on. No pulse. No breathing. No motion. _John was dead._

A shriek comes out of my mouth as the doctors and the nurses rush into the room. My ears hurt when I hear 'Time of death: 02:03 a.m.', and my eyes bleed when I see his lifeless body being carried out of the hospital room.

I stay there – not able to move, to speak, to breathe. Alone. Surrounded by the most devastating silence in my life. I try to make a step when a noise comes under my shoe. A note. Another one. I lift it up. Again an imitation of Sherlock's writing.

'_Forever came too soon. –SH'_

This time it is me who gasps, covering my mouth with my right hand.

Mycroft insisted John to be buried next to Sherlock, although the graveyard was one for suicides only. After I told him about what happened during John's last night, he seemed to understand that the connection between Sherlock Holmes and John was much closer than everyone has ever expected.

Mrs Hudson, suffering from sclerosis did not come on the funeral – only Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson did. Not enough for the man he was.

'He was Sherlock's better half, Mary,' says Mycroft when everyone else left, 'They couldn't last very long without each other... apparently. So, they do not need anyone else to be present here.'

'Thank you for being with us, Mycroft,' I nod in tears.

'No worries. My brother would appreciate it. I hope.'

I take last quick glance at the engraved _John Watson _and the years beneath it. The last line was something I insisted upon and no one else truly understood, _'__Forever came too soon__.'_

I take Mycroft's hand as we both wald away from the two graves – a big black one and a bit smaller gray one.

'_Sherlock?'_

'_Yes, John?'_

'_The doctors were right all along, then. I was sick, after all. I created the sickness for my own purposes.'_

'_What for, John?'_

'_Just to be with you, Sherlock. I'm sorry for not coming after you three years ago, Sherlock. Nobody could be perfect, after all.'_

'_You could.'_

'_Sherlock?'_

'_Yes, John?'_

'_Will you love me forever, Sherlock?'_

'_Forever came too soon, John. **I will love you beyond that**.'_


End file.
